


Good Little Hero

by goseaward



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-07-03
Updated: 2003-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goseaward/pseuds/goseaward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry gets convinced to do some charity work visiting an imprisoned Voldemort. He becomes a bit more involved than anyone expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Little Hero

Harry waits outside the high security section of St Mungo's, trying not to let his exasperation show. The employees seem incapable of understanding that his wand is, in fact, safe, that someone would have to be closer to him than his own skin to remove it from the magicked dragonhide sheath wrapped around his forearm. The sister flutters around nervously, bringing him stale hospital coffee that he doesn't want. 

Finally, an overbearing woman comes over and tells him he can enter. Harry is not particularly thrilled at this, either. If Hermione hadn't forced him into this—"but you're a hero, Harry," she said, "don't you want to set an example, do some good for the community?"—he'd happily have been at home, trying to put the pieces of a life together. But no. He is here, visiting his most hated enemy, in an attempt at rehabilitating him. 

Harry follows the woman down a dry stone hallway. She opens a thick stone door, and Harry expects a tiny cell. Instead, he finds another hallway, this one warm and comforting in pale panelling. The woman leads him to an ordinary wooden door and opens it. "Here," she says; "just tap the pad next to the main door with your wand or your wand hand when you want to leave." Harry nods, and she goes away. 

Voldemort is waiting inside. 

At least, he thinks it's Voldemort. The man inside bears no resemblance to the reptilian humanoid Harry remembers from the last two excruciating years of battle. He does, however, look rather like the Tom Riddle Harry remembers from the diary. A dark thatch of hair lays along his skull, instead of the scaly baldness Harry remembers, and in profile the man is quite handsome. Harry experiences a moment of shock when Voldemort looks up; his eyes are still red, with slitted pupils. 

Voldemort makes a half-hearted attempt at a smile. "Come in, Harry," he says. "Would you like to play a game of chess?" 

Harry doesn't say anything, just steps into the room, closes the door softly, and sits down at the chess table he now sees beyond Voldemort. He tries not to think of those eyes, and instead concentrates on Tom's handsome face. 

"It's an illusion, you know," Voldemort says. "To make me feel better." 

"I know," says Harry. 

"But it won't hold up if anyone touches me." 

"I know." 

Voldemort makes the first move, king's pawn forward two squares. Harry notices that Voldemort has chosen the white. There is something twisted about this, but Harry doesn't mind. His world has never been normal, and this is just one more indication. 

As the game progresses, Harry realizes he should have known Voldemort would be an incredible chess player, but somehow he just hadn't thought of it. After getting soundly trounced, though, he is quite aware of Voldemort's skill. 

"Another game?" he says, hoping to avoid conversation. 

Voldemort agrees, and soundly trounces Harry again. He offers Harry a drink, then, and Harry takes it: pumpkin juice, he discovers. They drink in silence. 

Finally, Harry offers another game of chess. Voldemort smiles. "Masochist," he says. 

Harry silently agrees. 

  

Hermione stops by Harry's flat later to see how the visit went. Harry attempts to tell her rather nicely to fuck off, but she doesn't seem particularly willing to listen. 

She jabbers on about his _duty to the community_ and what a _good example_ he's setting, just like she did before. Harry knows her intentions are good, but it's still annoying. He smiles patiently and pretends he's listening. 

Hermione runs out of things to say after a few minutes. Harry says he enjoyed himself. Comparatively, he did. 

  

Harry returns to St Mungo's the next week. The employees this time listen when he says that Voldemort can't get at his wand. They even try to pull it out themselves, something the others never thought. 

The door to Voldemort's room is open this time, and the room itself is unoccupied. Harry feels a moment of panic that they've let him escape. Voldemort appears from around the corner with a tray, though, and his lips tighten in a smile. Harry allows the corners of his mouth to twitch upwards. No reason to show he isn't enjoying this. 

They don't sit at the chess table this time, but at a small side table. Voldemort sets down the tray. It has a pot of tea, two teacups with incongruous pink flowers, and a plate of biscuits. Voldemort pours the tea carefully, and Harry takes his cup and a biscuit. He allows himself to look around the room this time: white walls, simple green blanket (did Voldemort request that?) on a metal standard-issue bed, white plastic side table, two folding chairs. The chess table is the only nice thing in the room: carved mahogany, inlaid with black and white marble, the pieces carved from soapstone. Harry blinks and gets an image of it in Voldemort's headquarters at the end of the war, splashed in blood and entrails, which superimposes itself over the stark hospital room. 

Voldemort smiles, as if he can read Harry's thoughts. Harry makes the mistake of looking at his eyes; the reptilian pupils hold his own, and he can't make himself look away. 

Abruptly, Voldemort looks down. Harry breathes a sigh of relief. 

"How did they get you to come here?" Voldemort asks. 

Harry decides it can't hurt, and explains about Hermione's quest for Voldemort's rehabilitation. Voldemort watches him with steady eyes. "But that's why _she's_ doing this for me," he says; "why are _you_ doing it?" 

"I don't know," Harry says. "Because Hermione asked me to." 

"A Gryffindor to the end," Voldemort replies with a trace of humor. When Harry doesn't respond, Voldemort says, "Chess?" 

  

By the fifth visit, the employees start to recognize him. Some still become upset at the obvious wand-handle lying along the delicate blue veins of Harry's left wrist, but the rest simply roll their eyes and motion him through. 

Voldemort already has the tea tray set up on the small table; the drink smells like cocoa this time, and there are mugs rather than teacups. He smiles when Harry comes in, and Harry finds himself smiling back. 

He holds up a small bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream. Harry starts to shake his head, but Voldemort stops him. "You don't have to be a hero here, Harry," he says. "You don't have to be perfect. Look who you're talking to." 

Harry thinks about this, and nods. 

Voldemort pours a generous portion of the liquor into Harry's mug. Harry takes it and sits down. Their silence is, as always, non-oppressive, but Harry feels this time as if he ought to say something. Finally he says, "How are they treating you here?" 

"No complaints. I have everything I could ever need...except freedom," Voldemort says. "And magic." His eyes flick to the wand handle on Harry's wrist. 

"But you're still alive," Harry says. 

"That I am." 

They sit in silence for a bit longer; Harry finds himself studying Tom's profile. It really is Tom's, not Voldemort's, and when Harry looks at him he sees only an ordinary man, not the insane half-human body from the war. It is still there, under the illusion. But Harry doesn't mind. 

"Tom?" he says experimentally. Tom looks up sharply. "Could you pass the biscuits? They're a bit far." 

Tom visibly relaxes and hands Harry the plate. 

"This is a good thing you're doing, you know, Harry," Tom says. "Truly living up to your hero status." 

"I thought you said I didn't have to be a hero." 

"You don't have to be. But always, in some way, you will be. There are certain stains that stay with us; heroism is one of them." 

Harry pauses, then nods. There are other stains Tom isn't mentioning, worse ones, but it will do no good to bring them up. 

It is odd for Harry to think that the man sitting across from him is the same one who terrorized the wizarding world for so many years. This mild-mannered, moderately handsome person was twisted enough at one point to believe he should rule absolutely. Harry can't reconcile that egotistical madman with Tom, sitting across the table, drinking a mug of cocoa. It's bizarre, and doesn't fit with the peace Harry feels right now, so instead he thinks about how nice it is to be here. In this room, Tom doesn't expect him to be anything other than Harry, who comes and plays chess. Much different from the rest of the world that expects Harry to be a perfect wizard with a perfect life. There are things about Harry that are definitely not perfect, and Harry wishes everyone else would remember that. 

When he sees that Harry has finished his cocoa, Tom offers the usual game of chess, and Harry accepts. 

  

"You're getting better," Tom tells him a couple of months later. 

"Might actually beat you one of these days," replies Harry. 

"Perhaps. Or perhaps I will pull something new, and you'll be just as behind as before." 

"Well. You thought that before, didn't you?" 

It's the first time Harry has mentioned the war, and Tom freezes for an instant. "Yes," he says finally. "But bravery gets you nowhere in chess." 

"No, I suppose not." 

Tom's finely drawn hands motion a rook forward, and Harry attempts to return his concentration to the game. In some ways it is difficult; Tom has finally managed to secure some clothing other than the simple gray of the hospital, and the green shirt and black pants look quite nice on him. Every visit, he seems more and more normal. His nails are manicured, and his fingers, when they point directions to the pieces and come into Harry's field of view, are long and delicate. Harry wonders if Tom's real nails are manicured and, if so, if the illusion's manicure is a side effect. 

"Can I ask you something?" Harry says. 

"You just did." 

"Why did you choose the things you did as 'desirable' in a wizard?" 

Other than the actual war, Tom doesn't seem to mind talking about his Voldemort days, and this is no exception. "Well, purebloods should be fairly obvious." 

"You're not a pureblood." 

"But I did everything to make sure that no one like me would ever occur again. And the other things...well, I'm assuming you're referring to my intolerance of homosexuals?" 

Harry blushes. 

"Homosexuality does nothing for the wizarding community. It is not, in and of itself, an undesirable trait; but engaging in it exclusively means fewer children." Tom reaches over and lays his hand carefully on Harry's. "So, as long as one produces children and provides for them...what one does with one's body is one's own business, is it not?" 

"Yes, I suppose." 

"Good." Tom withdraws his hand and smiles. "That question was a bit personal, though, Harry." 

"I know. Sorry." 

"No need to apologise. You give me something to look forward to each week." Tom looks across the chessboard; Harry thinks the glint in his red eyes is almost...coy? 

"It's not a problem," Harry says, and returns his gaze to the chessboard. 

  

"Your visits are getting longer," Hermione says over lunch. 

Harry nods. "He's making real progress." 

"You're helping a lot, Harry. I had an interview with his doctor the other day, and he says Voldemort's paranoia is decreasing spectacularly." 

"Tom." 

"What?" 

"He prefers to be called Tom." 

"Oh." Hermione looks momentarily disoriented. "All right, then." 

"Don't believe me?" 

"No, it's not that. I just...it's weird to hear you speak of him like a friend." 

"Oh?" asks Harry, incensed. "You ask me to go be with him for an hour or more every week for months, and you don't think we should end up friends?" 

"No, no, I didn't mean that," Hermione says hastily. "Of course you would, you can't help but love people when you understand them, it's the way you are..." 

Bitterly, Harry says, "Just a good little hero." 

Hermione looks at him, puzzled. 

"I'm just a good little hero, living a perfect little life. Right?" 

"No, of course not, but you _are_ good, it's just the way you are..." 

"And what do _you_ know about who I am?" Harry asks. "You've done nothing but push me around since the war ended. Go do this, meet this charity case, show up at this event...it's your duty, you're the hero...I'm tired of it!" 

"I don't want to push you away," Hermione says in a small voice. "I'm just trying to help, and I hoped you would too." 

Harry relents; she is one of his best friends, after all. "All right, but give me a choice sometimes, okay?" 

"All right." She gives him a tenuous smile, and he makes himself smile back. 

  

Tom closes the door behind him the next time Harry comes, and the chairs have been moved closer together. Harry feels a shiver of some emotion, but he cannot place it. 

The pot holds cocoa again, and Tom puts in so much liquor that Harry wonders which taste will win out. It gives him a pleasant buzzy feeling as he drinks. He tries to ignore Tom's knee scant inches from his own. 

"How is your life going, Harry?" Tom asks. 

Harry is surprised. Tom has never asked about him before, only answered his questions or discussed things in general. "Okay, I suppose," he says. "I still see a lot of Hermione, but Ron's wrapped up at the Ministry most of the time, trying to clear out...uh, you know. And everybody still expects me to show up at all these big events, just because I'm their pet hero." 

"They don't appreciate you," Tom says. "Look what you've done for me...not because you're a hero, because you're Harry." 

Harry smiles. Yes, he thinks, it's still Tom, even acting this way. "It's been my pleasure," he says out loud. 

"It could be more of a pleasure." 

Disbelieving, Harry turns to look at Tom. Sure, he's been a good friend, an honest conversationalist, but this is beyond anything Harry expects of him. Especially from someone who targeted homosexuals right along with non-purebloods and Muggle liaisons and basically everybody else. But the other man looks serious. 

"I mean it, Harry. You're a very attractive young man." Tom reaches out and runs a finger along Harry's jawline. It is the first time Tom has touched him, and Harry works to suppress a shudder. Instead of warm, normal fingers, something cold and bony, almost reptilian in texture, had brushed along Harry's skin. It is one thing to know that Tom's appearance is only an illusion; feeling actual proof of that illusion is more than Harry is quite prepared for. But Tom's offer seems genuine, and he is the only person who has seen Harry for himself and not a hero in longer than Harry cares to remember. So Harry ignores the chill feeling of Tom's fingers, and says, "If this is what you really want..." 

"It is," Tom says. 

"Okay." 

Tom leans in and presses his lips gently to Harry's. Harry has to suppress a shudder again at the feel of the alien lips, cold and dry and not particularly soft. Tom's tongue comes probing into Harry's mouth, as cold as the lips, but the feelings it evokes are anything but cold. Harry grabs at Tom's forearm as they pull apart; the wrist is bony and chilled, like the fingers. When Harry looks down, he sees his hand wrapped _into_ Tom's arm, translucent flesh swirling sluggishly around his fingers. He knows it's the glamour, but it still seems very strange. 

This is Tom, Harry chants to himself. This is the body he should have had. It doesn't matter what he feels like. It doesn't matter what it looks like. This is Tom. 

He suddenly wonders if certain other appendages have a similar glamour, and has to fight off a fit of nervous giggles. 

"Are you all right, Harry?" Tom asks, looking concerned. 

"Yes...yes, fine," Harry says, and Tom resumes their kiss. 

It is not long before Tom's hands begin to unclasp Harry's robe and slide down the shirt underneath to his belt, before they begin to unbuckle his belt, before thin cold skeletal fingers work their way below all his layers of clothing and wrap around his cock; and it seems to take even less time before Harry tenses and cries out into Tom's mouth and rolls his hips and comes, spurting what feels like most of his energy and all of his coherency. Tom gets up, and Harry is too dazed to try to stop him. He returns in a minute, though, with a damp washcloth, and cleans Harry and himself before planting one more freezing kiss on Harry's lips. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," Harry says, "you're still..." 

"It's all right," Tom replies soothingly. "Another time. Perhaps...if you could bring some lubricant next time?" 

"All right," Harry says. After a pause, he adds, "Thank you." 

"It was my pleasure," Tom says with a lascivious smile. "Would you like to play a game of chess?" 

  

Harry is nervous the next time he goes to Tom's room. He has the jar of lube hidden in his robes, but no one by now will stop him; he could probably have his wand Spellotaped to his wrist, instead of in its sheath, and the employees wouldn't give him a second glance. But after the last time's quick hard tryst, he is unsure of how Tom will react. It has been several years since Harry has had a lover, and he is not sure if he remembers what he is supposed to do. 

Tom closes the door behind him again, as he did last time. However, there is no tea tray in the room this time. Harry realizes he has no idea what Tom wants, or even, in some ways, what _he_ wants. Tom takes the initiative, though, pulling him close for a blazing kiss, incongruously with cold lips. He unclasps Harry's robe and pushes it off Harry's shoulders; it falls to the ground with a dull thud. Tom pulls back and looks at the pile of cloth with a quirked eyebrow. 

"Lube," Harry says breathlessly. Tom's mouth twitches a bit before he resumes his plundering of Harry's mouth. His tongue in Harry's mouth is soft, soft in a way the rest of his body isn't, soft in a way it wasn't last time and Harry wonders how he missed it. Slowly, Tom's fingers work the buttons of Harry's shirt out of their buttonholes; then he quickly pushes the shirt off Harry's shoulders. It catches on Harry's wrists, which Harry finds amusing; apparently smooth, polished Tom forgot the cufflinks. He breaks the kiss and goes to finish the job Tom left off. 

"You're wearing a lot of clothing," Tom whispers hotly in Harry's ear as Harry unhooks the cufflinks. 

A smile ghosts across Harry's lips. "More fun to undress that way." His shirt falls to the floor, and Harry moves his face to Tom's, waiting a breath before he kisses him. Harry works Tom's shirt out of it tucked-in position, then works it up to his shoulders. He pulls back just long enough to pull Tom's wrists above his head and remove the shirt. 

Tom doesn't give him a chance to continue the kiss; he drops to his knees and begins kissing and licking at Harry's stomach, with the occasional soft bite scattered in. He works at the buttons of Harry's trousers as he does so. Harry tries to tangle his fingers in Tom's hair before remembering that it isn't there; instead, he lets his hands rest on Tom's scalp, wrists disappearing into foggy strands of dark glamour. 

When Tom tries to pull off Harry's trousers, he miscalculates again; Harry's shoes are still very much on his feet. Tom smiles upwards apologetically and removes the shoes, and then the cloth bunched around Harry's ankles. Harry completely misses Tom removing his boxers as Tom wraps his mouth around Harry's cock, although he knows he must have had some input, as it required the lifting of his feet. Still, it takes him till Tom pulls back and looks upwards again to realize that he is completely naked. 

"Is this all right?" Tom asks. 

"God, yes," Harry groans, and Tom wraps cold fingers around him before moving forward again. His tongue is still soft and delightful, caressing and suckling. Harry closes his eyes to enjoy for a few moments, but then decides he'd rather try other things. 

"Stop," Harry says, "or I'll never make it long enough to—" He trails off as Tom tries a new tactic. "No, really, stop or I'm going to come," he says when he gets his breath back. Tom simply flicks his slit-pupilled eyes upwards, smiles around his mouthful, and continues to suck. Harry gives up the battle, and lets his fingers squeeze rhythmically on Tom's scalp in an attempt to stop his thrusting instinct. Tom doesn't seem to mind; he keeps up his sucking and licking and blowing Harry's mind until Harry yields, thrusting his hips forward twice quickly and coming so hard he can't believe he didn't punch a hole through the back of Tom's throat. 

Tom swallows and looks upwards again. Harry's eyes are half-closed, his hands limp; he's surprised he's still standing, and Tom looks surprised too. He decides that standing is, in fact, a bad idea, and nearly falls to the ground, managing only an undignified slump. Tom smirks. 

"How was that?" Tom asks. 

"Bloody hell," Harry says. 

"I take it that's good?" 

"Yes, of course." Harry is gradually returning to his body; he realizes his knee is more comfortable than the rest of him. Ah...his robe. Robe. Lube. 

Shit. 

Burrowing into the robe, Harry retrives the jar of lubricant. "I guess this won't do much good, will it?" Harry asks, holding it up. 

"Well..." Tom looks considering. "We could still use it." 

"But I'm...oh." Despite the fact that Tom just sucked him off, Harry feels embarrassed. Recently recovered blood rushes to his face. "Oh. I don't know, Tom." 

"Well, I would like some reciprocation this time...and I'm not sure you're in much shape for anything that requires much concentration. If I'm the one on top, I can do all the work." 

From what Harry remembers of the few times he bottomed several years ago, this isn't quite the case, but he really doesn't feel like doing much else. All things considered, it's the best option. "All right, then." 

Tom takes the jar and unscrews it, peering inside. "What is this, exactly?" 

"Um, something Snape made for me a few years ago." 

"Severus made this?" 

"It was a bit of a favor." 

Tom leers. "What kind of favor?" 

"Graduating and getting the hell out of his classroom, actually." 

"Ah yes. I'll have to remember him when I get out of here. If I get out of here." 

"You will," says Harry, "or why would they bother to rehabilitate you?" 

"I don't know. But it's possible they'll keep me here forever." 

"I'll come to visit you, no matter what," Harry says. Tom doesn't respond. 

They sit for a few moments, till Harry says, "Well, are you going to do it or not?" 

"I suppose so," Tom says with amusement, then stands up. Harry almost protests till he realizes that Tom's trousers are still on. Tom quickly disrobes—nothing underneath the trousers, Harry notes with approval. He wonders again how far the glamour extends, but decides it would not be prudent to ask. Tom starts to sit down, but then stops and says, "The bed?" 

"Sure." Harry forces himself up, walks to the bed, lies down. Tom lies down next to him. He takes the jar of lubricant and dips his fingers in. 

"Ready?" 

"Yes." 

Without further preamble, Tom rolls between Harry's legs, pushes them apart, and thrusts two fingers into Harry's body. Belatedly, all Harry's muscles clench and his hips lift into the air. Harry gasps at the pain. Tom merely smiles and starts moving his fingers. Harry's muscles reluctantly relax, and the burn starts to decrease. 

Then, Tom does something that makes Harry's hips buck again, this time in pleasure. Harry bites his lip, trying to stay quiet. Tom does it a few more times, then withdraws his fingers. He dips a few more into the jar. 

Harry is desperate for more of that pleasure. "Now, Tom..." 

"You're not ready," Tom says with another smile. 

"Don't care. Just do it." 

"All right," Tom says. He pushes Harry's knees backward. Suddenly he's thrusting, pushing, and Harry thinks he can't ever take it, he's splitting apart; all his pores open at once and give him a fine sheen of sweat; and it's never going to end, Tom's just going to keep thrusting in till he gets into Harry's throat and chokes him. The muscles in Harry's arse tighten again reflexively, but Tom still doesn't stop. The burn increases, warm and pulsing with Harry's heart compared to the cool touch of Tom's hands on his legs, and then Harry feels Tom's balls against his arse and Tom's stomach against his own, and Tom leans forward and whispers in Harry's ear, "I always said you were a masochist." 

Then he leans back and starts thrusting, really thrusting, hard and fast, in and out. Harry starts to relax and notices that Tom is indeed doing that thing again, whatever it was that felt so good before. His hips begin moving of their own volition, meeting Tom's thrusts. Harry can feel his skin sliding against Tom's on two layers of sweat, and the sheets twisted up and sticking to his shoulders and upper back. His hands are still curled in the sheets lower down, and right now they feel like the only thing anchoring him, as his body responds to Tom's without a conscious go-ahead from his mind. Harry comes for a second time without warning, but this seems to only make Tom go faster. Half of his body wants to slump over in post-orgasmic bliss, but the other half keeps thrusting back at Tom, harder and harder. The sweat starts cooling on his skin, an odd chill compared to the heat of his blood and Tom's, throbbing now in unison. Finally, Tom gasps out a kind of noise, haa-aaaah, and something warm settles itself deep inside Harry. Tom falls forward onto his forearms, chest nearly against Harry's, and looks at him with deep slit-pupilled eyes. 

"Thank you," he gasps. 

Harry merely nods. 

  

Having Tom as a lover seems to make all the difference in Harry's life. He feels happier, more relaxed. The charity events he still attends seem less onerous, and he even finds himself dancing at one of them, which he hasn't done since several months before the beginning of his visits with Tom. Some of this newfound relaxation, Harry is sure, is due simply to sexual release, but he also thinks that some of it is due to the way he can just be himself with Tom, instead of Harry-the-hero. 

Hermione mentions this at their monthly luncheon. Harry pretends to be unconscious of his change in outlook, but Hermione won't accept it. "Come on, Harry," she says, "I know something's different. What is it?" 

"I have a new lover," Harry finally admits. 

Hermione bounces in joy. "Who? Tell me!" 

"Uhm...." 

"Come _on!_ " 

"Tom." 

Hermione recoils. "What?" 

"Tom. I'm sleeping with Tom." 

"Harry...what are you thinking? This is Voldemort! Don't you remember anything?" 

"Thanks for the support, Hermione." 

"No, really! How could you possibly have sex with that thing?" 

"He doesn't expect me to be anything other than what I am—unlike some people!" Harry snaps. "I'm not a hero when I'm there, I'm not some saviour, I'm just me. Everyone else seems to have forgotten that!" 

"I mean...how can you trust him? How do you know he's changed?" 

"I've spent at least an hour with him every week for the past five months! Of course I'd know that he's changed!" 

"He could be lying to you." 

"Why would he lie?" 

"To get out of there!" 

"If he really hadn't changed, he'd be plotting to get out, not making love to me!" 

Hermione's face twisted slightly. "You call it making love?" 

"It is!" 

"All right. But how do you know he isn't using you?" 

"He isn't!" 

"But how do you know?" 

"I just know. The same way I know you _are_ using me." 

"He could be lying. He could be acting to make you think that." 

"He isn't, Hermione, I already told you!" 

"Why are you so defensive about this if nothing's wrong?" 

"Because you're slandering my lover because of some stupid mistakes he made when he was younger!" 

"Stupid mistakes?" Hermione's voice has gone dangerously quiet, but Harry does not heed it. 

"Yes." 

"Harry—that's delusional! He tried to kill you how many times?" 

"It doesn't matter. He's changed." 

"I don't believe it." 

"Believe what you want." Harry shoves his chair back violently. "I'm leaving. Find yourself a new hero." 

"He's lying to you," Hermione says quietly, pleadingly, behind him, but he is no longer listening. 

  

Harry wakes up sleepily in Tom's bed. Or rather, he should be in Tom's bed. Instead, he's floating several feet above it, quite nude. 

" _Accio_ ," he hears behind him. Harry smiles fuzzily for a minute; Tom must be playing at summoning him. 

Summoning. Magically. 

Wand. 

Harry snaps to alertness and looks at his only item of clothing: the dragonhide wand sheath on his left wrist. It's empty. 

He tries to turn over; with nothing to push against, he turns very slowly, but he manages. Tom is standing in Harry's robe, holding Harry's wand and grinning. His right hand is behind his back; Harry can't see what it is holding. 

"Morning," Tom says conversationally. 

"Why did you—how—" 

"This?" He twirls the wand. "What's the description of the spell, Harry? A person has to be closer to you than your own skin to remove this?" His voice drops to a mockery of a seductive whisper. "And what do you think my cock up your arse qualifies as?" 

Harry blinks. 

"Didn't think of that, did you?" Tom walks closer. "Let me tell you a story, Harry." His voice is sibilant; after a moment, Harry realizes Tom's speaking in Parseltongue, the first time he's shown his ability in Harry's presence since sixth year. "There was once a little boy. His name was Tom. He hated the name. He went to a magic school and learned to do magic, and with the magic he erased Tom and built exactly what he'd always wanted. And then along came another little boy who took it all away, just by living. And the boy who used to be Tom salvaged it anyway, rebuilt what he'd lost, but the little boy showed up again and took it all away again. Then they put the boy who used to be Tom into a little room, without his magic, and told him if he played nice they might let him out sometime. But the second little boy came and tried to be nice, and the first boy thought that he might be able to use him, since after all the second little boy had magic only a fuck away, and the little room was only guarded against big magics—not hovering charms, or summoning charms. So he plotted his revenge, and one day he managed it, and he escaped the little room to go reclaim what was his. And he wouldn't let the other boy stop him a third time, so he killed him—and the second boy didn't protest, because he thought that the boy he called Tom really loved him, and he waited until it was too late." Tom smiles in Harry's face. "Does this sound familiar?" 

Harry doesn't reply.

Tom pulls his right hand from behind his back. It's holding a bread knife. "The nurses down the hall are always so obliging," he says, "just happening to show me where they keep everything, because they think I'd like to help serve tea." 

"Wouldn't you?" Harry asks faintly. 

"No, of course not. But certain things do have their uses." He brandishes the knife, turns it so it glints in the light of the room. 

"What are you going to do?" 

Slipping out of Parseltongue back to English, Tom replies, "Nothing, Harry, nothing at all." He reaches out, grabs Harry's left wrist in a freezing grip. He turns it over so that Harry's palm is facing upwards. "I've watched this wrist for so many months, waiting to take this wand. I thought I'd leave a more permanent mark." He strips the sheath off; it is no longer held on with the wand gone. Then he lays the blade on a point halfway between Harry's wrist and elbow, right where the blue veins start to become prominent. Harry closes his eyes, and only feels a mild burn; but when he opens them, he sees a bloody line extending right to his wrist. Floating, he cannot push or pull away from Tom, only pivot. Tom grabs his other wrist and does the same. The cuts open quickly, blood starting to pour in a crimson curtain over Harry's stomach and the bed. 

Tom steps away. "Goodbye, Harry, and thank you ever so much—for the robes, and the wand, and the best revenge of my life. _Finite Incantatem_." Harry falls to the bed, and Tom sweeps out of the room, glamour gone; Harry watches the bare scalp disappear around the edge of the door frame. 

Tom was right, Harry realizes. There is no way Harry will say anything, because he still can't believe it's true. He's starting to feel lightheaded from the loss of blood and sticky. Sticky in this bed is something he is used to. It should be sticky with come, and a cold body next to his; but cold is something Harry will be very soon, so he supposes it isn't much different. 

This is it, Harry thinks; this is the end. His eyes drift downward, and he observes the contrast of red blood against the green blankets. Gryffindor red, Slytherin green. Full circle. He wonders how long it will take him to die. 

The chess table is still sitting in the middle of the room. Harry can see it fuzzily; is he not wearing his glasses? But no, he watched Tom leave. His vision must be going. Harry feels cold. He can't find it in himself to be surprised. Hermione is right, as usual: Tom was lying. Tom still wins, because Tom is the planner, Tom is the strategist, and Harry just rushes in blindly. All the chess must not have helped, and bravery doesn't matter at the end after all, just like Tom said. Tom is right. Everybody is right but Harry. 

The pool of blood is very large now. Harry's last coherent thought is that it is good he has resigned the position of hero; perhaps they've already started looking for a replacement. 

With the last dying flicking spark of heat, his mind moans, _Tom_. Then the blackness descends, and all the world goes cold.


End file.
